IN WAR
Martha Dickinson Bianchi translation
Hearing the terrors of the war, sore troubled, By each new victim of the combat torn— Nor friend, nor wife I give my utmost pity, Nor do I for the fallen hero mourn. Alas! the wife will find a consolation. The friend by friend is soon forgot in turn.
But somewhere is the one soul that remembers— That will remember unto death's dark shore, Nor can the tears of a heart-stricken mother Forget the sons gone down on fields of gore. One soul there is that like the weeping willow Can never raise its drooping branches more.